


Muses and Mead

by Nudebeme



Series: The Artist and Vilkas [2]
Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Snogging, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-12
Updated: 2013-04-12
Packaged: 2017-12-08 06:55:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/758392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nudebeme/pseuds/Nudebeme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A wandering musician from Valenwood arrives at the Companions doorstep looking for purpose, and he finds it in a fiery and brooding knight named Vilkas. Poetically lovestruck, he unknowingly enters the young Nord's darkest days.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Mead

Maybe he lacked the passion, or maybe a muse to pine over, but Vilkas could never put the quill to paper and produce beautiful words the way the skalds of old could. It was no secret among the Companions that Vilkas was struck with wanderlust and a hunger for knowledge, a soft spot in his heart for poetry and epic tales. While his brother was busy hunting skeevers and forging steel as a pup, Vilkas hid reclusive under the pines with a book. It had become something of a joke for the older Companions of that time, Kodlak and Skjor fascinated by Vilkas' intelligence while poor Farkas struggled to read even into his late teens. 

But try as he might, Vilkas never quite got comfortable enough to write stories of his own, or to sing tales of his own triumph without enough mead to send him to the pot heaving his guts for the rest of his night. It was his job as a warrior to fight, and the bards to record him into history in song and lore, and that was that. He chose to spend his young life in friendship with the solitude of his room and a good tale, silently wondering when it will be the voice of a song maiden singing praises of his battle glory..

But when that wandering bard of Valenwood came to their halls with a meager iron blade and a helpless little frown looking for work, his heart clenched with an unknown kind of unhappiness. The fires in Jorrvaskr lit up his road-dirtied face, Vilkas giving his usual sneer and once-over from afar of his physique. Bosmer where not built for the frontlines of battle, even if he did seem rather tall and broad for his breed. Perhaps a mutt? It didn't matter. Skjor took one look at the bedraggled wanderer and suggested to him he'd be better off “Playing minstrel to those brats up at Dragonsreach” 

He didn't get to see him directly, but he saw the way his gloved hand dragged over his elven face before turning about and leaving into the chilly autumn evening. He didn't care to notice the little bandolier across his back filled with who cares what. All that was left was the breeze that passed over his frame, collecting a scent that the wolf's senses picked up. It was faint, but he smelled spicy yet wild, like frost and pine. Not the smell of a warrior by far.

Good. Another annoyance he won't have to deal with. Vilkas retreated to his quarters, letting the beast within him simmer and growl with an impatient humor. 

~~~~

The Bannered Mare was unusually quiet for a Nord pub, all manner of races seated about chipped and wooden tables looking a mix between sullen and work-weary. Why did everyone always look so dreary in this country? The wandering musician thought as he rested himself on the nearest stool. He was getting the eye from a Nord not 5 paces away, unfriendly and unwelcoming to his kind. He was used to it by now, you've been to one remote village in the mountains, you've been to them all. Hammerfell was no different.

“You let one in, then the rest of them come crawling out of the woodwork.” Great. Another drunk countryman looking to get himself popular. The barmaid seemed passive, offering the stranger a drink before her new customer could be pestered out. He hardly had the coin to enjoy good food and a warm bed tonight, but the Bosmer complied. Whatever, he'd try to make nice. “So, how long have you been open here?” 

“About twelve years, actually. I enjoy this work well enough, but-”

“Damn elves.” The voice rose higher, feeling nordic blue eyes on him. “Coming into our city, drinking our mead and getting fresh with our women.” the musician's night-black eyes seemed to go flat as he ignored the attempts for a scuffle, downing the warm mead in a single tilt. He didn't think it would work honestly because he heard wood against wood of a seat being pushed away. 

“But I'm ready to retire..” Hulda tried to ignore their most infamous patron. “Hm, retire? Why you're hardly the age, My lady..But if you're customers are all like this, I can understand why.” 

That seemed to be the last straw since the Bosmer's mere presence was enough to send the drunken Battleborn farmer staggering up, a calloused hand suddenly on the table and another at the tired mer's shoulder. Well was it, isn't it? “Is this outlander bothering you, Hulda? I'll send him back in pieces!”

“Don't touch me.” He tried to seem careless but stern, only to feel the hand tighten uncomfortably. What the farmer felt under the leather and cloth was hard as ice, too drunk to notice that maybe he wasn't the soft elf most Nords perceived their race to be. 

“Leave him alone, Tyr, he's just passing through.” Well, mister Tyr didn't like this strange face, those freaky, inky black eyes that ended in points that just stared- he couldn't tell which way the Mer was looking. He saw himself in their reflection and that was all he needed to shove at the stranger, the bosmer feeling himself tipping off of the stool and his side pressed into the bar, the leather bandolier caught between until with a gentle crackle and snap the contents within shattered. 

“I said don't touch me, you drunken fool!” He finally piped up, his surprisingly deep voice had an unplaced accent, thick and foreign. A hand swatted out and pushed the taller Nord away with a heave, those around them at the Inn taking interest in a fight brewing. “Your petty attempt at winning respect just cost me what little I have!” He'd hoped to the gods not everything in his precious parcel was crushed.

Before he could let words of reason reach the staggering fool the first swing had already landed, a nord fist scraping against the Elf's sharp cheekbone, his messy, dreadlocked hair whipping along his shoulders. Within seconds the strap around the Bosmer's body was loosened and his parcel thrown across the ground, shouts of surprise and cheers from everywhere around him.

Nothing else seemed to matter though, the clambering of wooden chairs and feet on creaking floorboards. “Drive that snowback into the ground!” he heard, his sturdy frame ducking and weaving a flurry of angry arms. Others called out for the farmer to beat him to bits, yet the bastard failed to land a second shot. He just couldn't even place where the bosmer ducked to next, everything just seemed to happen so fast.

As quickly as it started, the Farmer found himself with his knees flying over his head, a hard pressure behind his legs and at his collar. He could make out the shape of flying dreads, of green facepaint and a very VERY solid blow to his chest from a wisely placed kick. “Uuurgghh” was the only thing he could say, his world spinning and an iron-toed boot on his stomach. Nobody even knew exactly what the Bosmer had done, sending a man twice his weight to the ground without a single drop of blood. 

The farmer didn't get up, he just lay there staring at the vaulted ceiling, blood rushing to his ears in embarassment. The Bosmer tisked and cussed softly to himself, hurriedly opening his bandolier and shifting around the contents. “Oh, simply wonderful.” He said, quite suddenly miserable and holding up what looked like pieces of an earthenware pipe. Hulda apologized profusely, inspecting the damage to the foreigner's cheek from afar. “This was my favorite fife, had it fashioned and glazed by an old friend of mine outside Corinth..” He was heartbroken inside, shaking his head and ignorant to the sounds of praise from around the Inn of his victory. Suddenly a bloated coinpurse was laid out before him, “Here, I know it can't replace your flute, but this is for your trouble. I've been trying to get that man knocked sober for quite a while now. It's two hundred septims.. and again I'm so sorry.” 

Hulda couldn't help but smile sadly for him, she'd seen strangers come and go but this poor mer had a tougher time than most. He was quite handsome too, a pity a large bruise started forming along his cheek. “You know, you should join the companions. I hear they're looking for new recruits. With skills like yours, I'm sure you'd impress someone.” 

“Ah, You see, I've already given them a visit. To be honest I just wandered in without even knowing it was home to a league of warriors. They told me off, but I guess that's what I deserve for being clueless.” 

“Well, you have me vouching for you!” Another drunken voice sounded from behind him, this one far more jovial than the last. He turned and brushed two beaded lanyards away from his cheek, seeing an imposingly tall and bearded blonde gesturing towards him, mug in hand. “That was quite a kick, never seen anything like that.” By the nine, he was quite friendly. “And” he burped, it reaked-”Don't you listen to what noooobody says in Jorrvaskr until old Kodlak had a look at you.” 

“Kodlak. Balding, missing an eye?” Apparently not, maybe he could earn a meager living in this town once more. The musician was still quite sore over being repeatedly belittled for his race, and he was grouchy enough to test his mettle against those who questioned him. 

“Nah, thats Skjor. He don't like nobody. Hey hey, tomorrow you should come back. I'll tell em you got lot of spunk.” Whether the drunk was just hitting on him or being honest to his word he'd have to find out tomorrow. There was no getting to Solitude with the money and armor he's got. 

“T-Thank you, friend. I will.” 

“Name's uh...uh. Name's..”

“Don't worry. You'll remember.” The charming stranger smiled, defeated yet interested in making a friend- any friend. He'd always been that way. “Have a drink with me?”

“Now I really like you”

~~~~

The next day the musician entered Jorrvaskr with a little more gusto, and a lot more information. He'd spent a good portion of that night entertaining the blonde he learned to be named Torvar, and in turn being entertained by the way he blindly praised everyone that passed him, even for the littlest of reasons. But if he was true to his word, then the Companions would give him a thorough looking over.

And by Mara, hopefully everything Torvar spewed about their history in Whiterun was at least vaguely correct, or he'd be making a big fool of himself. Jorrvaskr smelled of ash and kindling, Nord and mead. It was definitely the prettiest building he'd seen so far, now that he alone walked in with more ambition to look about the place. He was stared at by unfriendly eyes, none he'd seen before. A pair of severe reds of a Dunmer, cold and nasty hazels from under a warmaiden's helm.  
“I'm interested in joining the Companions, I believe Torvar said to speak with a Kodlak?”

“Pft, good luck shorty. Heard about you from Skjor.” She was quite charming, wasn't she? “We don't need any battle drummers, and I hate flute, so-”

“Yes, yes, of course. Anyway, Kodlak? Is he here, or not?” He snapped back, glaring down the bitter warmaiden. Technically, she couldn't kick him out, but oh divines did she want to. It was enough having a snappy, overbearingly prideful dunmer around. “Downstairs. Now get outta my sight.”

“It would be my pleasure.” He had to constantly remind himself that this was just a smaller city, he hoped and prayed Solitude would be what he'd read in the history books. A towering city of stone and beaming with music and culture. He's been through this song and dance of earning respect endless times before.. This was just a means to an end.. 

He'd just opened the door to the underground hallway when he came face to face (well, face to chestplate) with the most staggeringly handsome creature he'd seen since he stepped foot in Skyrim. He was by far not a shy mer, but beautiful words and song washed about in his head like a choir when he looked up to see a surprised yet peaceful face. What a face.. Husky white eyes set deep at the center of his chiseled features, painted black. A pleasant amount of beard, luscious Nord lips curled into a smile and black, oily hair framing his gentle appearance. He was like a tame stallion, shimmering black against a sea of snow. His mouth hung open and silent when his gloved hands came up to politely touch the biceps of the beautiful thing before him, as if to apologize.

“Woops!” It grumbled, The poetry in motion behind the Bosmers eyes. He stepped back and to the side, the most polite gesture he'd encountered since entering this mead hall. “You're new. Here to see Kodlak about joining the Companions?” Not a mote of sarcasm could be read, and the Bosmer was very good at reading thoughts. 

“Yes...” He sighed, lovestruck. The damnable prose came to mind, having to shove that poetic soul down just enough to gain some sense into him.”He's here?”

“Just down the hall, at the end. He's talking with my brother, Vilkas.” But what was your name, you angel? He didn't even need to ask. “I'm Farkas. Good luck, maybe I'll be seeing more of you.” And like that the vision in steel walked past him and up the stairs.

“I can only hope that I will be” He blurted before Farkas could venture beyond earshot, seeing him look over his shoulder and smile just that agonizing little bit. The Bosmer's previously emptied hope of finding beauty and inspiration in this city was wonderfully sated, for now.

The name Farkas danced along his tongue as he treasured it, entertained thoughts of what kind of man lay behind the face. What was he like? Was there a hundred poems and lyrics to sing in his honor?

All those thoughts came to a crushing end when he idled into something of a serious conversation. For what he saw before him made the mer eat his words- Farkas wasn't kidding when he was talking about a brother. The twin rivaled him tit for tat in dark, sensuous beauty. Seated with legs astride, gloved, long fingers at his padded knees, was this Vilkas. Lean and long, his body seemed a fraction of the weight his brother carried. His black hair was well-kept and even, his face identical to the one he'd seen before. But yet, it looked so different. 

He couldn't help but eavesdrop. “But I still hear the call of the blood..” Vilkas' expression was callous and serious, not a shred of innocence and the Bosmer could already write volumes about him. No, he was nothing like his brother. It didn't take much to see that. 

“Ah, a wanderer comes to our halls..”

Whatever Kodlak saw in this stranger, Vilkas saw none of it. He wasn't impressed from afar when he saw the man yesterday, and this didn't change a bit. The old bear saw promise in those otherworldly black eyes- eyes that made the wolf inside Vilkas feel uncomfortable and unhappy. They where utterly unreadable, a dark teal paint etched around his eyes and contouring his bruised face and downturned lips. 

The wolf inside him roiled in an unplaced anger. “Why have you come to Skyrim, stranger?” He had to ask, keeping calm yet anyone could see he wasn't happy with this strange new mer at their doorstep.

“I've traveled across Tamriel for years, I'm an artist by trade and I yearned to see your history in person, as I have read of it in books. I've come into some trouble when I crossed the border and this is the first place I ended up.” He had a craving for knowledge, to play alongside Nordic bards and hear their instruments, see what masterpieces they've built. Something inside Vilkas twitched and wanted out, but he was far too clouded by irritation to even admit it.

“Hmph. You don't look like much to me, bard. A lute won't save your life or someone elses' from trolls..  
But our Harbinger knows what's best, so lets test that arm.” It was sad really, The dreadlocked Bosmer didn't enjoy being treated like he was worthless by a good-looking man. He'd have to prove himself one way or another, all the while Vilkas looked utterly unhappy with the whole matter.

They where in the yard now, the lithe Nord sizing up his opponent and his piddly little iron sword. This was going to be embarrassing for sure. “Alright, artist of Valenwood. Let's get this over with quickly.” He could see Torvar and the other whelps gathering under the awning, watching from afar. The circle didn't take part in this, it was usually below them to even oversee.

“Let's go!” The bosmer's voice was surprisingly threatening, the beast inside him wanting to lash out at this golden-skinned figure suddenly leaping at him. The shield came up, there was a clattering of metal on metal and a whirl of brown, wild locks flaring about them like tongues of flame. Vilkas was miles above the drunken man from the night before, but the Nord wasn't prepared to lose sight of the mer so quickly. 

He left no time to be exposed, swords clashing again in defense so violently that sparks flew across his painted face. The artist was quick, he'd give him that. But Vilkas was more experienced- or so he thought. It was a solid minute that felt like a lifetime where neither could aim a palpable hit- and the Companion was beginning to realize that the mer wasn't trying to hurt him. Whatever he was doing, it infuriated him!

“Come on and hit me, you milk drinker!” The Bosmer watched him all the while, Vilkas in a carnal and bloodthirsty dance trying to tame him. He wouldn't give him the pleasure, for it was enough of his own pleasure just to be in this tangle with the feiry Nord. 

“Very well!” There was a swooping noise, then a loud crack that Vilkas registered as his Pauldron cracking under the weight of a sword. “Argh!” he cried out in genuine pain, and again his shield receiving a vicious blow that was enough to send him stumbling. It didn't stop there, the heavy weight on the young Nord's arm used to bash the quick body out of the way, leaving ample time for the opportunistic fighter to wrap his hands around Vilkas' blade and send it flying, skidding along the dirt at Kodlak's feet. 

Vilkas gasped and swatted away the mer's hand that offered to help him up. “You're pretty good..” The artist smiled, pleased with himself surely and it disgusted the wolfish man to no end. He underestimated him, that's no lie. If only Vilkas knew he was facing an elf almost 6 times his age, which he spent carrying a blade. He'd tell him, but that'd ruin the satisfaction of putting a stubborn man in his place. He can wait. 

Kodlak's old legs took him to where Vilkas stood alone, picking up his greatsword and looking over his cracked armor. “I'll bet you feel refreshed after that humbling battle, pup?” Vilkas snarled at his Harbinger, but honor kept him quiet. “You knew he was skilled?” Kodlak merely nodded, he could tell the moment he met the elf that he'd seen plenty of battles despite how ageless they may seem. 

They both looked over at the artist who now was amid conversation with Torvar, getting slapped on the back, Athis mumbling something to Ria, whom looked quite impressed. The wolf inside Vilkas was howling, snarling and scratching to get out, to track that long-eared ass and get his revenge. No. Stop it, Vilkas. He beat you in fair combat, show some civility. It didn't stop the man in him from watching though, intrigue beginning to seep in as he stared down the elf's back, the beads woven into his dark auburn dreads. The thick metal piercings in his long elven ears.

Was it the man or the wolf who stared at him so infuriatingly? 

~~~~

The first few weeks under Jorrvaskr's roof had been so undeniably hectic for the lone Bosmer he had trouble keeping his eyes open during every waking step, every single breath he drew coming closer and closer to the brink of collapse. Dragonborn. He suddenly meant something to these withdrawn Nord folk and yet all the lore these folk held so dear didn't reach the Companion's gates. 

For inside, sleeping on the whelp quarters couldn't have felt more alienating and alone. He did jobs that came to him and hardly spent his free time without utter exhaustion, withdrawn and alone. To be honest the sudden realization that you carried the blood of the gods gave the musing mer a painful kick to his psyche. Alive for over 180 years, wandering and filling that unusual void inside him with music, wine and Skooma..and then this? A son of Akatosh?

Vilkas sat crosslegged after his lunch in the yard, a dusty thick book under his arm and the Sun at it's highest. Whiterun's walls felt cool against his armored back, it only took several sentences until he was deep in the volume. Tales of honor, bloody battles, imposing storms- these things where old news to a jaded Nord. Reading them with no one to truly share the excitement, at least not until the newest whelp came and crouched before him.

“Hmph?” Vilkas growled, not giving the foreign one the effort to look up from his book. “What brings you to me?” His scent overshadowed everything in the breeze

“I've finished the job for Aela, let me know if something else comes along.” 

“Good.”

“...”

“So what's this you're reading?” Vilkas saw a hawkish nose peeking towards his text, feeling as if he should curl the pages away. “I've been looking for a good tale that every Nord knows.” Where in Tamriel did that accent come from? It was so unusual it made it difficult for Vilkas to pay attention. 

“Aye, this is a classic of Skyrim, but it's far too buried in our history for someone like you to understand.”

“Mm, glorious victory? Bloodred dawns and busty Nord women?” He tried to joke, but Vilkas merely huffed. This man had attitude written all over him, and it was enticing. The Artist eyed him up and down appraisingly, yes.. The man looked tortured and well guarded. He's hiding something behind that fiery sneer and that simple fact made him so intriguing. 

“Hardly. It was a vicious battle and many kinsmen died.” 

“You'll have to teach me of your history, It's in all honesty my main reason for coming to this province.” 

“...”

“So, is there anywhere I should start?” He was talking to a stone wall here. Vilkas apparently was sick of talking because his eyes flickered up in obvious annoyance, his jaw set firmly.

“You can start by stepping a few paces back, you're blocking my sun. And if you want a lesson talk with Vignar, or Kodlak.”

Yikes. The artist sighed and smiled at him despite the harsh treatment “Alright then, although I do think I would have enjoyed it much more coming from you.” He stood, Vilkas' eyes downcast and staring at his booted feet before seeing him walk away. That's right, leave me alone. Maybe now he can breathe easy, the heady smell of spiced wood thinning out.

He tried to get back into the book, but his mind was stuck fluttering around how he'd have portrayed that battle, phrased the song he read. It aggravated him until a mellow, unusual sound turned his head to the farthest left. It was airy and foreign to his ears, like wind passing through winter-dried reeds but warm like the sun. 

He crawled on his knees and then to his legs, book under his arm to the source of the noise..no, it was music. On the Whiterun gates the bosmer was precariously sitting, legs dangling down a steep drop to the plains below. He was turned away, elbows perched on his knees as he ran his lips along something, it looked like a bundle of orange sticks. 

The sound was beautiful. His body rocked side to side ever so slightly, to a drumbeat only he could hear. The loose dreads spilling across his back caught sunlight like a sabrecat's eye and like a piper to a beast he was drawn closer. Vilkas was fully staring, eyes widened as if trying to hear the tune better. 

 

The Bosmer could feel eyes on him, maybe it was the birds or a wandering spirit coming to enjoy his song. He turned around and saw no-one, Vilkas' back leaning against a shaded wall. 

So he played, and Vilkas listened. Listened and secretly pined to be able to do the same.

 

Well it turns out the man was certainly hiding something. He was a werewolf, just like Farkas. His brother was sweet and endearingly trusting when the Silver Hand made him use the gift before the whelp's eyes, and he promised not to tell. He learned that each take to the blood in their own way, Farkas held it down well. He was resilient like a mountain, or maybe too ignorant to feel it's torment. 

But Vilkas was different. “He doesn't like to give in to anything, even if he likes it. I don't know why but he's always been that way. Sure it's not good to let the wolf out all the time, but I just wish he'd be happier.” While most in the circle attempted sleep, Vilkas stayed up and read his books, stewed in his crankiness. 

“I can imagine it'd be tough to stay awake for years on end with no company but your darkest thoughts. I understand why your brother behaves the way he does.”

“Maybe you can talk to him, then. He doesn't make friends easy but I think that's what he really needs. I think he likes you.”

“Hah!” The Bosmer laughed out, toting their gear back as they returned home. “Likes me? I've gotten admirers of all kinds but your brother has the strangest way of showing it.”

“That's the thing, he doesn't. He's bad at showing if he wants something, none of the women in this town take him seriously. He acts tough because he wants to run things his way, and cuz he's smaller. He got so sick when he was a whelp himself, Kodlak wasn't sure he was going to survive. I guess that's why he's not big like me.” It sounded like Farkas was yearning to tell someone about his worries for a while now. He'd listen.

“He likes you cuz you're smart. You always talk about how you've been to Elseweyre and the Altmer islands. You know, he always wanted to see those places.”

“You both are still young, there's time. I'd be glad to tell him if he'd be willing to listen.”

Farkas smiled at him and the Bosmer beamed right back, feeling heat prickle at his ears and cheeks. Divines, he was a sight to see... But that was it, really. The more time he spent with Farkas the more he seemed like a cold coal, while Vilkas was bright and hot- A burning, smoldering man. 

That night, Farkas vouched for him. He raised a mug in his honor and for the first time in a long time, they welcomed a new man into their quarry. For the first time, thanks to his honest dedication and good deeds, he was accepted as a warrior. It was with more inviting hearts that he was allowed to speak of his tales before the fire, Vilkas seated farther down the table while his brother and the rest circled the foreign bard.

But he listened. A deep in his cups Vilkas found himself relishing story after story of the Dragonborn's hunts of dragons, of the endless sand-seas of Hammerfell, chitinous worms the size of 4 mammoths with razor-sharp hides. His stories ended and those noises came back, chairs pulled around as the new companion played long, narrow flutes made of dwarven metal, small round lute-like instruments that he drag horsehair bows across. 

Like a hound is drawn to a curious scent, Vilkas drew near. Enough mead passed his lips and pickled his mind to where he saw no shame in sitting closer. And the elf noticed: He was the flame, and Vilkas his light-thirsty moth. Ale made his flutes taste sweeter, his stories rowdier. He heard Farkas' joyful laugh when Torvar asked if he'd ever bedded a Khajiit whore.

“Ka'jiti? Y'ffre no, for my back would be clawed to ribbons.” He drunkenly laughed. Vilkas never noticed how his canines ended in noticeable points until now, predatory and carnivorous like the Bosmer have been perceived to be in their homeland. The wolf inside him stirred uncomfortably, made him warm under his armor- and no help from the mead, which he had another. 

Torvar had gone past the point of his usual inebriation, and the circle saw the nord whelp wrap an arm around the newest male. And the now-drunk bosmer was leaning back into him, hearing praises of him being called “a real panty-dropper” and “a breath of fresh air” but that wasn't what the slighter twin felt.

He suddenly felt stuffy and irritated at the sight of the blonde's gentle prodding, plying the poet with drink after drink, touching his hair. The wild glinting smile on the elf, the way his tattooed eyes crinkled so slightly when he laughed. 

Many moments passed, mugs and empty bottles lined the floor next to their chairs and Vilkas found himself one of the last few by the fire. Torvar had sagged himself to sleep, Athis and Ria, Njada and Aela. Farkas stood and went to the welp's side, shaking his shoulder sturdily “Try not to pass out upstairs, you.” maybe he was drunk too, but only the Dragonborn saw when he aimed for the stairs. He glanced at Vilkas, and back to him with a subtle wink. 

“Goodnight, my friend, goodnight!” The bosmer sang, his voice slurred yet satisfied. “And don't pine for the morn', for ale is a lover now, and a heartache tomorrow” 

That left them alone. Things suddenly seemed to change then, well at least for Vilkas. He became dark and withdrawn again, eyes clouded with a dizzy haze seeing the Bosmer's tan skin alight by the fire, staring at him an arm's breadth away. He simply mused over what he would say next, or if he should say anything at all- he was quite content to cast his black eyes over the dark figure of a knight in armor. 

“I'd like to hear a little history” he purred. Vilkas met his eyes “Your history, Vilkas.” The way he spoke his name sounded exotic. 

“What do you want to know?” 

“Does the beast inside you yearn for freedom on nights like these?” He leaned back in his chair and propped sturdy legs upon another, his arms up and cradling his head. 

Vilkas couldn't find a way to bitch his way out of this one. Darkly, he sighed “Yes.” The elf couldn't tear away from the wolfish blue of his eyes. His mind couldn't grasp for words right now, not in this state.

“Unbridled, I'm sure it is a force to be reckoned with.” Vilkas leaned in, firelight catching the planes in his face and making him look beastly, imposing. “Tell me more.”

And Vilkas did, or at least tried. The mer listened to the lilts and dips in his voice, the way he spoke inebriated revealed a passionate man, maybe even a poet. His eyes dropped, drinking in the beautiful armor, his handsomely long legs and parted thighs and he bit his own lip. It was hard holding back lust when it's thrown right in front of you this way.

He could imagine them entwined, making a shame of themselves drunkenly on his fur bed. He wondered what a wolf man would sound like moaning and growling in a heated rut-

“We need to get you to bed” Vilkas said suddenly as if trying to end the conversation. He was hot and uneasy, alone with someone he didn't let himself know. He got up and waited flatly for the Bosmer to stumble his way up, instrument pouch strung along his back and a dumb grin on his face. 

He stayed behind, just a pace, wondering at how lovely that ass must be hidden under the fur kilt. He hummed and staggered, unthinking of waking the sleeping companions as Vilkas opened the door for him to the quarters. “Ttthank you, milord” he said. Vilkas frowned.

Frowned because the elf followed him, past the whelps room. Vilkas itched every footstep he heard behind him until “Aren't you going to say goodnight?” He felt a hand tug at his arm, Vilkas' world spinning for a brief moment before turning back. 

'Don't follow me' he would have said, but words where sucked from his mind when the hand at his arm suddenly became firm, pushing him. A drunken Vilkas was backed up against the dark alcove of the hall, coming nose to nose with a mer that smelled like spice and mead and drunk. He, a wolf, had been cornered.

Two hands felt his chest, sliding up and down the steel until nestled comfortably astride his throat. The elf's solid body soon pressed to his, lips licked hungrily and he eyed Vilkas as prey. He wanted that wolf, a taste of his wild fire. And he did so, Vilkas humming in surprise to feel a stubbled face against his own, a minstrel's hand through his hair.

And lips that tasted like sex and heat. The whelp's eyes drifted shut, sucking in the Nords lower lip and moaning in pleasure. And by the gods he felt Vilkas begin to kiss back. It was frantic and sloppy, Vilkas shuddering to feel a male tongue wrestle his own, battle for dominance. He felt the graze of predatory teeth and hot breath on his neck and for a brief moment, chaotic pleasure coursed through him.

They grunted and swayed, Vilkas' hands remaining holding a pair of arms while the other felt their brazen way around. “How beautiful you are,” The elf moaned, grinding his two legs into the trapped man, making Vilkas snarl, only to be snarled at in return. His cock twitched angrily behind his armor “Mysterious and carnal, How I'd love to feel more” 

A wayward hand dove low, palm gliding along worn wolf fur before resting between Vilkas' legs, gripping firmly and lips dragging along his untouched throat. It was then the mer had gone too far.

“Enough!” Vilkas cried out, his cock lengthening fully with just a single brush. The Bosmer was swung around, his back slammed against the wall and his head spinning. The other male took both hands away from Vilkas immediately, looking frantically apologetic. He didn't foresee this happening-  
Livid with rage, Vilkas grabbed the mans face painfully tight, squashing his cheeks with a massive grip. He glared daggers at his attacker, the hair on his neck raised “You learn your place, bard.” He shook the face he just kissed, furious at being taken prisoner for those few moments. The beast inside him was contested, but so ready to fuck. 

“I'm sorry” He gulped, ebony eyes wincing and sobering. “I didn't mean anything-”

“Just!...Just be quiet. And leave me be.” Vilkas let him go from his shaking grip, turning roughly and marching away to his private room, the Bosmer frowning to hear the slam of a door. He rubbed his face in defeat, tasting him, still feeling the prickling heat of beard against skin. He turned about and shuffled his way to the whelping room. He probably won't sleep well tonight..

Vilkas tore away his clothing in a heated mess, panting and sweating feverishly as a lump caught in his throat. He wanted to howl, claw and sprint, to let the beast free in any way. But he couldn't, he was trapped in here. His cock refused to surrender, jutting from his now naked hips and weeping in need. The smell of him clung.

He threw his slender body against his bed, legs spread wide and an arm draped over his forehead. He hated the idea of himself jacking off. “Damn you to Oblivion” He took his cock in hand, squeezing from base to tip- it was so hard it alarmed him, he wouldn't last a minute.

He pumped himself hard, downcast eyes watching his foreskin move with each downward pull and a gasp on every breath. His hand moved out of pace with his bucking hips, free hand wandering down to pull his thigh apart. He found a pace his body would be pleased to fuck with, grunts turning into shuddered gasps.

His wolf howled, but Vilkas merely swallowed his cry as he came into his hands, open mouthed and writhing. His seed spurted out thick and musky, the smell of himself making him weak. His drunken body shook, his facepaint smudged along his pillow as he nuzzled it, breathed into it. 

As he recovered he tried not to think of the taste of his lips, the fact that he'd gotten so hot for the male. He was skilled and exotic, everything Vilkas was not used to and it made him unbearably angry. But the poor man was drunk, he didn't deserve that. How he'll be able to face the man tomorrow he'll never know.


	2. 2

Vilkas didn't see him that next morning. He was long gone, he'd told Farkas he was needed in Markarth and Vilkas stewed in his dissapointment in himself, wondering if he scared the elf away with his nastiness. It wasn't right, the way he treated him. The next time he sees him, he'll try to be nice. 

And when he came back, The bosmer was surprised to see Vilkas had behaved considerably more tame. He treated him civilly, offered him help, asked about his health and his ventures. It was obvious to him now that Vilkas had forgiven him for tresspassing on him that night. It didn't take long until the Bosmer felt it was safe to continue his endeavor. He'd try to befriend him, because let's face it.. He was a romantic at heart and Vilkas was a suffering handsome knight who needed a savior. 

When he slept at his bed in the whelp's room he would find small novels and tales placed by his stand, gifts from the reconciling Nord. He'd read them, hand them back to the man and discuss their history over a tankard of frothy ale. Vilkas smiled on those nights, he looked so handsome that way, and it made his brother happy, too. 

But he still held so much away from the mer, infuriatingly so. He could write volumes on just how frustrating it felt to get one step closer to his Nordic muse just to be thrown two steps back. Why couldn't he be enough to make this man happy? Why did he refuse friendship and warmth?

He had to get it down on words. The elf sat cross legged under the Gildergreen, gazing up at it's pink petals with paper and quill in hand. And he wrote. 

~~

Vilkas retreated to his room, cold and shivering with rain-wet hair. It was vicious weather outside, riding back from Falkreath for a solid night left him exhausted. It was routine, he'd set his armor and sword aside for cleaning, waited on for food and drink and then he'd sleep. But tonight he reached forward to see a scroll of paper hang from his door handle, wrapped together in a leafy twine. Was this a summons? 

He sat while he unraveled it, his legs stretched and his bare feet on the rug below.“Birth of the Raven” it said, handwriting beautiful and sharp. He studied it, but the language was indecipherable: it seemed to rhyme, it was set like a poem. And at the very bottom, was a note. It was the elf's handwriting, now he recognized it. 

“Come to me for the translation” It was dated yesterday. What was he on about here? Vilkas dressed for sleep, padding on the floor in search of him. Upstairs there was no one but the elf himself, sitting on the ground before the quieting embers. He saw the red light catching on his dark skin, lighting up the striking bones of his face, his dark stubble. 

“Ah!” He calls out, a hand out to him from afar “I was wondering if you would have shown. Come, sit!” and Vilkas reluctantly did on the floor beside him. The elf looked giddily happy to see him, it was quite cartoonish how the emotion showed on his face. “I know you are wondering what I'm on about here..” He faced the man, placing dishes out before him, his instrument pouch beside him. Suddenly the scent of him was overwhelming, as he placed two small lumps of incense in the porcelain. “..and it will make perfect sense. In just a moment.” 

“What's all this?What's this writing?” Vilkas couldn't help but grin, fire snapping between the mer's fingers as he burned the heady perfume. It was dark in here, the smell and the fire, it was quite nice. Vilkas looked at the scroll of paper in his hand, opening it at his beckon. 

“All will be revealed, now lend me your ear, my friend.” His accent was flourishing, he pulled out a small lute, its stem long and fine. Oh. The Nord's smile faded in the faintest way in realization that this is a song. For him?

He drew a bow over the slender strings, the sound was haunting and discordant at first, the mer's body swaying, his head ducked and looking as if in a trance. Vilkas' breath felt like it was stuck in his throat, notes starting to fall into place, up and down. This was far from a joyful tune, but how beautiful it sounded. 

Then he heard the elf's native tongue for the first time, words directly from the page. Vilkas' heart pounded, blood flushing to his cheeks at the sound of the Bosmer's smooth voice, deep and controlled. His face contorted with emotion, unashamed of throwing his hair back, furrowing his brow, his voice breaking off at seemingly the perfect time to make Vilkas' body tremble. 

But what did he say? Vilkas saw the mer's abstract black eyes open, they could have been looking anywhere, but somehow he just knew the dragonborn was looking right into him. Whatever the words may be, well, clearly they where about him. Vilkas' ears burned. 

It was over before he wanted it to be, the sights and smells, the undeniably sexual burn in that voice left him utterly quiet. 

“Do you want to know what it means?” He whispered.

“Yes...” Vilkas whispered back, even if he didn't need to. 

He placed a new roll of paper in his hands, eyes on the way Vilkas reached out to take it. The way the Nord moved told him exactly how much he liked it. He didn't need to ask.

 

Birth of the Raven

_His cage was tempest-tossed in flame,  
a cage of glorious sadness,   
this Phoenix did reside  
Shall I pluck this lock, free this captive  
For in this birth of freedom,  
The phoenix flames would douse  
For in my minds eye  
nevermore would there be a sight as beautiful  
as his raven wings unfurled in glorious,  
glorious freedom. _

Vilkas had read it three times in a row before he realized that the bosmer had already cleaned the plates away and was standing, waiting to bid him a goodnight. “I'm glad you came to listen. Sometimes my frustration comes out in the strangest ways.” He laughed quietly, gazing at Vilkas a few moments more before bidding him goodnight, Vilkas remaining seated. 

He went to bed reading it, laying back and remembering the sounds, The faces that matched the words.   
What in Shors name was this new blooded trying to do to him? Write beautiful music in his name, remain a constant tickle in the back of his hunt-clouded mind. What in all of Tamriel did he want from me?

As breathtaking as his music was, as cheerful and intellectual he was, something big told Vilkas not to get close. These feelings where distressing, he didn't know where to place it apart from the obvious lust his wolf feels for him. He'd spent so many years alone with the beast, this new soul honestly scared Vilkas.

He read the translation again. 

He went to sleep feeling bleak. 

~~

Weeks went by. 

 

Kodlak's death was something the Bosmer felt he was unworthy to watch. The vigil, the heartbreak and togetherness of the grief of their people. They burned the body, admitted him into his personal space, to read his journal. Why? Why did he deserve that right? Why did the man need to die anyway? If only he could have been there sooner. No one felt it wrong that he be made Harbinger- but he'd been there only for so long!

Not even a year.

He may have been Dragonborn but that gave him no right to replace such a praised warrior. Farkas felt grief. Aela felt hate, but it was Vilkas who wanted to see blood the most. He wanted each head on a pike, their bodies desecrated. But in all honesty, when the Silver Hand was destroyed, all he could feel was crippling emptiness. 

Revenge wasn't all it was cracked up to be. Somehow for Vilkas, it made his heart all the more bitter. When the fires of hate where over, the ache set in and the man sought no chance of escape. All of the others tried to sleep, tried to continue their duties, but their pain was clear. They would heal soon. But for Vilkas, this was not so. He chose to hide and “stew” as he remembered calling it. During the day he was withdrawn, Aela noticing the young man's thoughts nearly handicapping him from his simple duties. She thought he was a fool. 

But the Dragonborn didn't. He knew Vilkas' kind, they where stubborn and felt the need to play invincible because it made them feel strong. It was just the way Vilkas was, and by the gods he needed to stop before he could crumble. The Bosmer would press his ear up against the man's door in the deepest night, hearing shuffling, silence. Shuddered breaths, more silence.   
And it just went on like that for days until a week had gone by. 

The companions where allowed to laugh again, their mead hall in subdued sadness as supper was eaten. Stories began to exchange again, friendly competition and the trade of coin. But reserved Vilkas stayed an intangible distance away. Few words, fewer smiles. Tonight's dinner seemed no different, until Farkas decided it was enough with constantly worrying for his brother's sanity. 

They saw Vilkas push himself up and out, bidding them a goodnight. He hadn't bothered to finish his meal, withdrawing to his room and Farkas could'nt hold himself back, fearing that Vilkas will lock himself up in his room again tonight and read those stupid books. Quite abruptly, the hulking Nord approached the bosmer, grabbing him by the arm and asking if they could talk. 

“It's about your brother, isn't it? I noticed.” 

“You need to do something about Vilkas.” Farkas sounded like he was begging. “I'm afraid he might lose his mind if he keeps up the way he's been going.” His brother didn't know anyone else who'd be wise enough to get through to him, why not the Harbinger? They where all supposed to be good at this kind of thing. 

Turns out, they did.

Because he had an idea. Leaping up from his chair the Bosmer gathered a handful of scrolls from under his bed, he marched his way to Vilkas' room. The door was open, but the hall reeked of inhospitable air, the Dragonborn's ears pricking back with discomfort. “Hey, Vilkas?”

“Aye?” He heard flatly from the desk. Vilkas was inside, hunched over a book, near its last few pages. The bench space next to him was open and the nord politely made enough room for him, holding his page in the novel. If Kodlak where still alive, they'd be long past this air of awkwardness...it made the Dragonborn's heart ache for him.

“These are a few classics I wrote from famous poets of Falinesti. I was thinking maybe you wanted to read them.” Vilkas merely thanked him. Said that he'd read it later. It became obvious that Vilkas didn't want him around, he just wasn't being a bastard about it this time. 

The bosmer didn't allow the awkward silence that followed to go on for long. He cleared his throat, tried to let Vilkas know he seemed genuinely happy to see him. 

“How have you been feeling?” He tried to sound engaging, Vilkas sitting as if he wasn't comfortable. “I've been bearing well.” A bold faced lie, of course. “You know, if you have anything you want to talk about, I'll listen.” The mer was far older than anyone here, he sometimes wished humans would see him wizened.

“You already sound like a Harbinger. No need, What's done is done. There's no use in reviving old pains.” Vilkas said, quite poetically. 

“I seriously doubt this is an old pain, my friend. A steel bearing can still break if the load becomes too heavy for too long.” He reached up and put a hand on his shoulder, rubbing it tenderly. Vilkas flinched, glaring at him flatly. “You know, your brother waits upstairs, wondering where you are. You should go see him.”

Vilkas said nothing, the Bosmer staring at him with those inky black eyes. It unnerved him how he couldn't see their pupils. The mer felt compassion, the hand becoming an arm going around Vilkas' back, another resting in his lap. Vilkas' skin crawled at the touch, feeling his personal space terrorized by something so gentle. 

The nord shook his head. The beast inside whimpered, tail between it's legs. It didn't like this and Vilkas decided he didn't either. “Are you sure you can't?” His harbinger whispered, the feeling of his breath touched his cheek. Suddenly, Vilkas stood up and away, the bosmer still reaching out to him in surprise. 

“Dammit why are you touching me? I want to be alone!” His eyes where pinpointed, his back stiff. He was a beast cornered but a heartbroken man. It was so obvious to see, it made the mer raise his voice in frustration. He's had enough.

“Why do you do this to yourself? You know full well you're bearing this great burden for absolutely nothing! Don't you see how much you suffer?”

“It's of no concern to you of how I lead my life. I told you to leave me!” 

“You need help, everyone sees that. Even your brother sees that! What's this pride doing for you, Vilkas? It's bringing you nothing but pain and pity from others. Do you want them to pity you?”

Vilkas was about to snap back, faltering. Because the Bosmer just kept going.

“If you just let ONE good thing come into your life, why do you feel like you need to suffer for it? Talk to me. Talk to your brother. I see a lonely person trapped inside of you and he needs to be free.”

“I am not a muse for some pathetic love story you're writing!” Vilkas howled, his voice far louder than he's ever used with him. It literally rattled the Bosmers ears, making him step back in alarm. But he wasn't going to give up.

“Kodlak is dead, you've known him almost your entire life, why do you feel like it's beneath you to mourn? cry? Even I cried when he left. These are things man and mer do! Even beasts weep for their dead!” 

Vilkas heard that name again, and the harder he tried to unclench his throat, the harder it became to breathe. The Bosmer could see the pain cut across the Nords face like a slow, delicate knife. He couldn't hold back from saying it. “I could have done something. I could have fought harder.” 

“It's the Silver Hand's fault he's dead, and none of it your own, Vilkas. You fought with all your heart, I know you did. That's all I could imagine you would do. You fight, fight and fight and Kodlak deserved every bit of it. He's in Sovngarde smiling down on you. I know it.” 

Vilkas stopped fighting. His arms hung, his eyes downcast. He'd given up shoving the man to the door, choosing to stand in utter failure. The artist eased in, as if unknowing if he was to leap and swing at any moment..but he didnt. 

He touched the man.

His voice came down, easy and careful. “I know he must have meant so much to you. He was a leader to you, and you followed. Now your alone and it's time to lead yourself.” 

“He was a father to me..” Vilkas' voice was stretched yet unwavering, tight. “I can't imagine how many times I'd have died where it not for him guiding me. I owed him a longer life for the life he's given to me.” 

Vilkas felt a hand come up behind his head, he was too exhausted to slap him away. He didn't feel like it'd be worth anything. “That's why you need to start enjoying your life. He spent his last days fearing for your happiness, and he would not be proud of the life your living.” There was a hot warm thing on his shoulder, Vilkas' lowered forehead.

“Would you do that for him?” He pulled the taller man in close, arms around him unashamedly. 

“Why are you doing this to me?” Vilkas shuddered, and the elf knew he was crying. His body shook, leaned forward and he was welcoming of his weight. He didn't answer, stroking his back and heard the first strangled sob wrench from his throat. It was heartbreaking, but a strangely beautiful feeling for the mer. 

Vilkas couldn't stand the pain, the fact it was so obvious and he felt like an utter fool. Ashamed of hurting his brother, hurting Kodlak and hurting a mer who's intentions with him are so unclear. Once the first tears came then they just wouldn't stop. 

“Because you mean something to me. You wouldn't let yourself get used to the idea.” If it meant reaching him, it meant breaking that wall. Of course it was going to be painful. 

The Dragonborn's eyes catch the sight of Farkas peeping from the hall, he had heard the shouting and feared the worst. Farkas looked shocked, his mouth hanging open, hands scrambling for purchase on the wall before leaving hurriedly. Hopefully the Dragonborn could do this alone, Farkas couldn't find it in himself to get involved- he didn't know how to handle it. He hadn't seen his twin cry in 10 years.

Vilkas had his hands clawed to the mer's back by the time he'd lost the strength to keep himself quiet. It was the first time he let this feeling in, a warm body to cling to. Something stable and comforting, well..Someone. If he was to be broken now, then let him break, Vilkas thinks. He hid nothing as he started to paw at the mer's back, hearing his hushing words of comfort, little noises escaping his own throat. 

Maybe he wanted to forget, but Vilkas pulled away just long enough to look at this man who brought him heartache. It was a confusing gaze, a confusing touch “What do you need?” He asked the Nord, seeing him eye the door. “Close the door.” He heard Vilkas gulp, felt hands on his hips. Part of him knew what Vilkas wanted- his body already springing to life. With a gentle knock the doors where locked tight, turning back to see the man already throwing his armor off. 

“Come to me” he said, no, he moaned it. The Bosmer couldn't tear his eyes away from him, Vilkas was biting his lip and looked to the bed, pulling the tan body close to his until he had the elf seated in his lap. He allowed himself to touch the mer's solid body, running calloused hands under his clothing, tracing his curves. It felt so foreign, the touch of a male. Even more foreign the taste of his lips when he ignited a kiss between them both. That was it, he needed out. Now. 

 

Where the Nord hid so much in public, he let loose while he kissed him, felt him all over. He was unchained and teasing, batting his eyes and sucking on his lower lip. Hair was spread pleasantly across his chest, It was as if the man was exposing himself in a mating dance, offering himself. The bosmer moaned in arousal simply watching him, stunned by the animal passion Vilkas kept hidden away. 

Vilkas' lips descended down his stripped body, the Nord having torn his shirt to discover the elf's surprisingly broad and firm chest. He was perfectly hairy, running his warrior's hands through brown strands, stroking his inhuman scent to life. There was pale, raised scars across his body, a perfect symmetry among old wounds- ritual scarification. Vilkas stared at them in hunger as his mouth wrapped around the mer's lovely cock. 

He wetted him, made the shocked elf shudder and thrust before an iota of concern came to him. “Vilkas, you don't have to..”

He only sucked harder, pulling away to stare up at him, his voice deep with need “I'm getting you wet, how else are you going to fuck me?” The mer's cock jolted , swelling in Vilkas' mouth making the man purr with appreciation. “That's what you want, right?” He moaned, sounding bitter under his arousal. He couldn't lie. He wanted to, and Vilkas spread his legs open before him, laying on his back.

“Come on,” Vilkas whined when he felt the cock rest at his hole, whatever he was going to say next came out as a silky, wonderful moan. 

Vilkas found pleasure in the pain, head thrown back and mouth agape while the bosmer carefully pierced him. He didn't stop until he felt hips against his ass, seeing the mer staring down at him in heated concentration. “Are you alright?” Vilkas gasped in response, he wasn't, but he would be. He moved again, the nord's passage feeling a tremendous heat that made his entire body shake. He did it again, and then again. Their tongues tangled and the pace of their dance was set. 

Fucking him was like poetry, his body jolted and writhed, twisted around him like beautiful words making the mer's own body dance up against him, unabashedly whorish and desperate. Vilkas' back curled if his hands where bound, not allowing their lips to separate from a kiss that was almost overwhelmingly passionate for him to adjust to. Vilkas desperately ate his face, tasted him and seethed between his teeth when he had a lip sunken between his teeth. 

“Are you going to fuck me, or what?” He would gasp out, his accent so thick. “Don't just lay there like a fool. I want it harder.” Vilkas' legs tangled around his waist, humping up on the mans hips and urging him. “Bless you!” he cried in heated exasperation, fucking him as if his life depended on it. The elf didn't know that fine breadth between the man and the beast in Vilkas while they rutted, it was wonderful. 

Looking into that face, eyes soaked in pleasure and bloodshot, he didn't think he was going to last. Vilkas was tighter than he could imagine, the nord started to gasp and shudder, spreading his legs wider to take him in. “Gods, you need to keep going-” Vilkas moaned up to him, shaking and unable to do anything other than feel the cock inside him. “Do you want to cum for me?” Dragonborn whispered, feeling hot breath puffing his ear. “Yes,” Vilkas gasped “Gods yes!”

 

Vilkas heard the sound of the artist spitting, warmth on his cock and delicious friction of a hand pumping him. He palmed the head, teased his slit, did everything to send Vilkas over “-like that, don't stop!” He warned, the elf hoping to Dibella he'd last to please the Nord. A few more agonizing moments of Vilkas feeling him inside he breaks, throwing his head back and snarling with release. It comes in waves, his back arched and shivering moans escaping him while he watched the Bosmer above him “Come on, give it to me!” He shook, opening his legs and feeling the mer's seed flood into him, hot and stinging. 

He gasped as the mer collapsed on him, Vilkas' arms moving to their sides. His world spun as he tried to bring breath back into his lungs, feeling dreadlocks spread across his shoulder like a draped hand. His hole contracted and throbbed around the bosmer's softening cock, trembling under his solid weight. The elf faltered in thought, but carefully reached a bare hand up, stroking his pale shoulder and chest. It was comforting not to be pushed away. 

Vilkas let him lay there, buried deeply inside him, until they both felt the sweat dry off their bodies and their breath return. The artist had his eyes closed, his face resting against the Nord's chest which he stroked and palmed “You're not going to make me leave, are you?” He finally spoke up.

“No, I won't.” Vilkas said, his voice hoarse and low. His mind had been surprisingly empty until it came to him about everything that'd just happened. He felt as if a vice around his heart had been loosened, a constant coldness let out to warm. Was this relief? Acceptance? 

“You've been so good to me,” He admitted “And I've been stubborn, Pathetically so.” The Bosmer chose to let Vilkas sort his own self out “I failed to see just how bad it's become, I've been in the dark for so long...It took a friend like you to see me through it.” 

“You're not out of it yet” the elf looked up, reaching forward to touch Vilkas' cheek, seeing his face stained with his runny paint. The companion took the time to actually enjoy his face- his pouty lips covered in bites, the fascinating bone structure, his hawk-like nose. He called him friend, but the turmoil that stirred inside him merely looking at the elf felt more like a lover's doing. 

Vilkas sighed when the elf heaved himself up from his chest, withdrawing slowly and Vilkas had the full view of the dried mess clinging to his stomach, of the mers flaccid cock. A tan hand massaged his thigh, moving achingly slow up and over his sack. Vilkas shuddered to the touch but not unyielding “What are you doing?” he whispered, feeling a chill rush over his spent member. 

“Just relax..” Vilkas stared at him, uncertain but then his eyes drifted shut, arms relaxed.   
“Rest your mind, Vilkas.” He began to feel the artist's hands map his body, comfortingly and sensuously. Soon Vilkas' eyes refused to open with his mouth slack in exhaustion and physical contentment- the Bosmer smiled when he heard the young Nord's first snore. He was out, probably for the first time in more than a week.. 

He couldn't leave this spot, seated on his knees with Vilkas' legs wrapped around his thighs. The wolf man would wake up even if he tried to leave, so he stayed. All night the artist sat motionless aside from a gentle stroke or touch on Vilkas' body, writing poetry in his mind of him. Please let this be the start of something better for him, and for them.

**Author's Note:**

> This was first featured on the Skyrim Kinkmeme. My english isn't spot on and I was pretty stoned for 70% of writing this so uh, excuse the grammatical errors.


End file.
